Equilibrium
by flowerpunks
Summary: Because in the end, all Shane really wants is Rick. Better Angels AU.
1. Chapter 1

Shane swears he didn't pussy out.

It was a bit of a careless mission on his part, he thinks. He lead them both out, bitter and confused, his rationale in pieces, and he wonders, even now, which one of them he'd actually wanted (hoped) to pull the trigger that night.

"This the right way?" Rick's voice is raspy when he stops them and Shane feels a slight panic creep through him. His head pounds in indecision, then his mind flashes back, earlier that day, to the dewy scent of cottonwood and Lori's pained pretty face, reflecting the same emotions gnawing inside of him; anger, remorse, grief, longing. She turned away and he'd wanted to reach out and yell and tell her to stay, that it's okay, he doesn't blame her, but instead he stood there, mouth open, noiseless and surrounded by his own stupor.

"S'right a way as any." He waits, but the son of a bitch doesn't budge so he nods his head back to their direction to urge him on.

The gun almost slips from the sweat on his palm. He tightens his grip, knuckles turning white, and he hears the dried leaves crunch under their heavy steps when Shane realizes he's shaking. He eyes Rick's back, knows he can't see, but his teeth grind together in frustration and he's so torn between everything so he keeps a mantra ofthat soon turns into just a panicked _fuckfuckfuck_.

He plays out a scene in his head, where he comes back to the farm alone, no Rick, just all that guilt and hot blood on his hands. _Fuckin' kid came outta nowhere, runnin' to us, didn't even have time to blink when he shot Rick. I lost it and snapped the kid's neck. I tried-I tried to save 'em, tried to stop the blood but god, there was so much… I was holdin' on, fuck, Lori, I'm sorry, I was trying so hard, I tried to carry him, I couldn't_—

Rick stops so abruptly, Shane thinks that one of those Geeks must be out there somewhere and he gets inwardly scolds himself for not raising his gun fast enough. He turns a full three-sixty but finds none and his relief's cut off short when he sees the rigid form of Rick's back and he stands there, gun halfway down, confused and it dawns on him.

Heat pricks behind his ears in shame and he doesn't know why, it's not like Rick knows, but _hell_, maybe he does, he probably knows everything.

His head pounds and he wishes something would happen, something apart from him and Rick and this moment he wishes he could burn up and never have to face again.

"Shane."

His name is the trigger that creates the fragments within him and his heart pounds violently, eyes trained on the murky ground. The hard metal of his gun, slippery in his cold hand, is the only thing that keeps him there, solid and breathing. Shane squeezes it, wishing he could crush it and turn it into dust.

"Hmm?" It sounds pathetic even in his own ears, _seriously, fuck, get your shit together, _and he looks up at Rick, trying his best at nonchalance.

Rick's turned around and his eyes are wide and blue, too blue — a contrast from the dark shadows waiting patiently around them. It scares him, because it's Rick's eyes, and it's the same, ever since they were seven and that stupid kid in the sixth grade gave Rick scrapes on his knees and a bruise on his arm. Shane had been angry and stomped out to lunch that day, put his back into it and took a swing at asshole's face, macaroni and cheese flying out of his mouth.

It's too much and Shane looks away and sees beside Rick's head is a clearing. There's a thin blanket of fog and the moon hangs, pale and blinding, over it, like a spotlight waiting to be recognized. Shane wants to laugh because it's there, that's the place — could've been — but he heard his name and Rick, goddamn _Rick_, has got to have the best fucking timing in this whole fucking world.

When he looks back at Rick, it's betrayal and accusation all in one. Shane sees something like stupid white flags waving in his head and suddenly he staggers backwards on his feet, gun hanging loosely in his hand.

And somehow Rick knows, of course he knows, because he holsters his gun decidedly and his voice is calm when he says, "We should be heading back."

But still, he waits, expecting. And Shane doesn't know what else to do, so he nods, and follows Rick back to the farm.


	2. Chapter 2

Shane doesn't know what time it is — has no interest in knowing — but everyone else is asleep and every time he closes his eyes he sees Rick's face and it sucks.

He stands in front of the sink in Herschel's kitchen, fully fed, bandaged and interrogated (fuck you, Daryl) with a half empty — half full, whatever — glass of water swinging in his hand. He stares out the window and thinks how no more than an hour ago, he was out there, so prepared to kill Rick — _Rick_ — and thinks that maybe he'd gotten possessed, that it really wasn't him after all.

Heavy boots click on the wooden floor behind him and Shane braces himself, puts the glass of water in the sink and stares straight ahead, out the window.

Rick goes to the cupboard and Shane can't help but watch him out of the corner of his eye. He looks away when Rick comes over next to him to fill up a glass with water from the sink and walks back to the cupboards to drink it. It's quiet for a while, it's safe, and Shane thinks he's about to leave when:

"Why didn't you do it?"

His voice is low, careful not to be overheard. Shane's eyes immediately snap to Rick, then back to the window as soon as their eyes meet. He doesn't say anything because he can't and what the fuck could he say anyway?

Rick's tone is light and curious, taunting him, "You had your chance. You could've taken it. Why didn't you?"

Shane looks down, studies the drops of water on the sink and tries hard to tune him out.

"Bet you had a story planned already. What was it? Was I gonna get bit, was Randall gonna shoot me, what?

"Gotta hand it to you though, it was perfect. I was an open target. You walkin' behind me and all that… too easy. Way too easy. How were you gonna do it? Were you gonna shoot me in the back? Let me bleed out, is that it? Or in the head? Clean shot, quick and easy, no need to waste another bullet."

"Shut up," Shane growls under his breath.

"Woulda worked out great for you. Finally get to have your way with everything. Kill everything that gets in your way. Get my kids to call you 'daddy'. Screw my wife any time you wish—"

"Shut up!" And suddenly he's standing right there in front of Rick, hands balled up into fists, aching for flesh to split and the feeling of his own blood.

"He speaks," Rick has the fucking nerve to look content with himself and Shane gives it his all to resist punching the smirk out of his face.

He never considered himself to be a fair man, but if he was, he'd know that Rick has the right to be angry at him. And that he should let him be angry, because this is (what he assumes) a natural reaction to having your best friend almost put a bullet in your back.

But _fuck that_, Shane is the living caricature of irrationality and he has as much right to be angry as Rick does.

"You had the same amount of chance as I did, Rick. You knew what I was doin, you coulda killed me, why didn't you? Eliminate the threat, ain't that what you call it?" Their faces are close, squaring off with each other, noses not quite touching and only Shane's hot breath hanging between them. "Huh? What happened, Rick? Thought you weren't the good guy anymore."

The smirk on Rick's face is long gone; his face dark and seething and lips curled back, baring his white teeth.

"You got a weak boy, a broken woman, and what do you do? You run away, always sayin' you got somewhere to be. They need you, but you don't listen. S'why I'm always here, cleanin' up after you. Truth is, I'm a better father than you, Rick. I'm a better husband.

"When you were gone, man… I made _love_ to her like I never did before. _Fucked_ her 'til she was sore."

Shane hears Rick whisper a "stop" and he knows that he should, he doesn't mean it, any of it. Rick looks away and Shane tilts his head to catch his eyes. And when he goes on, his voice sounds strange even to his own ears. "I touched her… I kissed her… I tasted _your wife_. And it was the best _fucking_ lay I have _ever_ had."

He waits for the satisfaction from all this, from all the lies and bullshit and destroying every last bit of whatever Rick and him ever had, but it never comes. Instead he feels the shattered pieces in himself ache and tries not to fucking cry when Rick looks at him, with those blue eyes, like he doesn't even know him at all.

"_Fuck_ you," Rick snarls.

Then suddenly Rick's hands are reaching up to shove him in the chest and Shane's thanking God and football for fast reflexes as he catches Rick's wrists and pins them down on the counter behind him. Rick's legs flail, trying to kick him, but Shane's fast and he keeps him there, digging his knees hard into his thighs. Shane dodges Rick's few failed attempts at headbutting him with a soft "don't" and he tightens his grasp on Rick's wrists, hard and bruising.

After a while, Rick finally stops attacking him. His head falls back to rest on the cupboards, either in defeat or in a pointless effort to put some kind of distance between them. Their panting echoes against the empty kitchen, the moon shining on their faces intensely. Rick's looking at him and Shane racks his brain for an apology or an insult or, _something_, shit, but there's this buzzing in his head and they're too close and he can't manage to put anything in place so he kisses Rick.

His mouth moves slow and deep, forcing the back of Rick's head harder against the cupboard. Rick makes a sort of stifled sound, wrists struggling against Shane's firm grasp and he bites Shane's tongue.


End file.
